Plague Thoughts, September 2020

Normally this is almost my favorite time of year--summer is in its death throes; a peep of scarlet and gold starts tingeing the trees; the mornings are sometimes a little bit cool; the last of the crickets keep chirping, a bit feebly, but grimly holding on though they must know, instinctively, that their season is coming to a close. We are on the cusp of what is usually my favorite time of year--fall fun and frolicking with friends, followed by wintery, cold, bleakness outside, and cozy companionship inside. 

But this year--not so much. Fall and winter will come, and that is comforting enough, I suppose. Time will keep on keepin' on, and each passing month will bring us closer to the end of this current bizarre, lonely, masked universe in which we've landed ourselves. It's only been, what? 6 months since we relocated to this current Dumbest Timeline, but really, it feels like literal years. Memories from the first few months of 2020 are fuzzy and fading, and it now feels like all I've ever known is this. Zoom meetings. Masks. Nightmares about being stuck in crowds without masks. Grocery deliveries. Things like casual shopping trips, hugs and handshakes, simple library processes and policies, nights at the local bars, plane trips, and buffets--all of them distant echoes from the now-mythical Before Times. 

Just after the "shutdown", but before everything really seemed to go into stasis, I attended an impromptu meeting at the library. As we spoke about various pieces of business related to how to operate in the weeks ahead, I looked around the table and wondered, When will we all meet in person again?

6 months later, and we haven't yet. 

In late July, during the lowest point of my (inevitable) isolation and depression, I had the good sense to set up a recurring "family time" with my aunt and uncle. Once a week, I drive out to the country where they live and the three of us sit on their front lawn and watch the sun set and the birds and squirrels and chipmunks frolic--all of us masked, and me sitting far away from them. It's a peaceful and sweet and comforting routine, and I hope we can keep it going until the winter. 

The other evening, as I was driving home from my weekly family time with them, I drove past a sushi restaurant on the outskirts of town. This sushi restaurant has been here for a dog's age--since before the first time I had lived here. For 16 years at least, and probably a lot more, that sushi restaurant has stood in the same location--slightly shabby, but always there. And in business. What unremarkable sushi and indifferent service failed to do, the pandemic seems to have succeeded at. The place seems to be a shell--the building is dark and empty and silent; the business sign isn't lit. Has the sushi restaurant gone completely out of business, or have the owners only gone to ground, temporarily, until happier, healthier times? Either way, I realized that I had hit a new point in These Pandemic Times (TM)--I found myself relating to a building. I'm still present, still enduring, but I feel weirdly empty, dark, and silent. Abandoned, even. My existence feels as though it has dwindled down to the basics: work, which is comforting for its routines and schedules and company, but also stressful and a little heartbreaking; grocery deliveries; occasional visits outside in parks and on lawns with a dwindling group of friends. Several of the people in my social circle have moved out of state over the course of the pandemic. My dreams and ambitions (such as they were) are on hold--if you will, on a leave of absence. Closed until further notice, but not permanently. One day, I hope to re-occupy the building of my life, but right now, all I have it in me to do is...well, exist. Endure. 

Indiana feels the same. 

The Summer of Our Discontent

The other day, I popped into my office at work. I rarely go in there, now--I am in the library only one week in every three, and the work is non-stop, so my office serves only as a bolthole to which I retreat to shove a hastily-grabbed lunch down my gullet before returning to the often exhausting efforts of supporting curbside work. 

Anyway. My office has a faintly abandoned air about it, unsurprisingly. I had simply popped in to see if I could find some pens, and was on my way back out when my eyes happened to land on the coat rack by my door. Dangling there, forlorn and completely useless at this point in the year, was a scarf. I had probably hastily slung it there, back during the week of March 9, and then forgot it before I left for my long weekend vacation. The one I never took, because the world ended and our Library closed. So that scarf remained there as winter turned to spring, and spring melted into summer--four months ago, but honest to god, it feels like a hundred years ago.

I stood there for a moment, almost dizzy with discombobulation, before shrugging it off and soldiering on. My world has dwindled to focusing on the current day, the current task, the current duty. I answer emails, I do schedules, I try to support my colleagues, I binge watch television, I sleep, and I mourn the old life, the old routines, and I wonder if we will ever go back to that. But introspection is a dangerous, depressing venture that frankly, I don't feel equal to embarking upon. 

It's July now. Outside, it's hot, hot, stupidly hot, and the sun shines relentlessly in a brassy sky. It's been rather dry, too, this summer. My country has lost its goddamned mind and a very vocal segment of the population feels that bowing to mask mandates to preserve public health will lead to the mark of the beast or a microchip or something, and when they are not busy protesting masks, they are denying the existence of historic and current systemic inequity and racism. COVID-19 cases are absolutely skyrocketing and my sisters live in Florida and I'm worried to death for them. And while each brutally hot, suffocating day seems to drag on and on, I know that in a moment I will blink and three months (aka ten years) will pass and autumn will be upon us. And we will still be stuck in this pattern because 'MURICA. 

I'm hot, I'm tired, I'm scared, and I don't know how we are going to make it through this.

Welcome to the summer of our discontent. 

Days of the Week Mean Something Once More

If the last few months have taught me anything, it's how to properly value Fridays.

This was my first week back at work. We've started up curbside appointments, and it's taken what seems like months to iron out all the procedures, and a fair bit of helping to keep things running smoothly and safely fell on my shoulders, along with a group of about 20 others.

On Monday, I put in 16,000+ steps, and passed out as soon as I got home.

On Tuesday, I awoke thinking "I can't do another four days of this." All that day, I was in a high bitch of a mood--tired and exhausted and in pain, even.

On Wednesday, I got my second wind--it helped that there were various work fires to put out, and a noticeable uptick in work to be done, and we were a bit short staffed. It's almost like, when there are more challenges, it's almost easier to rise to the occasion with good cheer and energy.

On Thursday, I plateaued. I chugged along and did work and remained present and reminded myself that the weekend was almost here.

And on Friday, I basically just spent it doing all of what I had done earlier. And I thought, with increasing glee, oh god. The weekend. I can't wait. I just have to get through the next several hours of work, drop shit off for T---, work for The Prof, send off about twenty emails, oh! and pick up wine. But, oh, god: the joy of Fridays. What a lovely, lovely thing. It is a simple, pure joy, and I will never forget it.

At 10 PM on Friday evening, Mama Manager put down her sword.

My Dogs Are Barking

7:30 AM on June 1
Fourteen years ago, I started my first professional, full-time job. I was 26 years old, and had just moved to California after graduating with my master's and spending what seemed like countless years in a (comparatively) footloose and fancy-free student lifestyle. The student life I had led had been characterized by deadlines of hyper-inflated importance, odd hours, hastily-arranged lunches and coffee dates and happy hours with friends, late nights of reading boring technical literature, and unending anxiety about grades. It was grueling and stressful and, in hindsight, absolutely glorious for the freedom it gave me without my realizing it.

I don't remember what I wore on my first day of work; I don't remember if I had first day jitters. I do remember realizing, very early in my day, that my boss was a bit of a mercurial and moody person; I remember eating my lunch in the stuffy attic of the old Carnegie part of the library; I remember the little thrill of pride and glee I got when I answered my first basic reference question. And I remember returning to my empty, lonely, overpriced apartment that night, completely fucking exhausted. 

Today, I start back to work after the longest stretch of relative freedom I've ever experienced in my adult life. While the last good few weeks I've spent glued to my laptop at my kitchen table for unending odd hours, including evening and weekends, returning to the library building and putting in up to 8.5 hours a day in there is going to be a bit of a shock to the system? Will I be as exhausted as I was on that summer day, 14 years ago?

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6:30 PM on June 1
Oh my god my poor feet.

I'll be sleeping the sleep of the blameless tonight.

Plague Diaries, Issue 64: May 25, 2020

March 7 was a predictably chilly day here in Southern Indiana, typical for late winter. Probably it was a day where it wasn't quite cloudy, but not quite sunny, either. I honestly don't remember. What I do remember about that day is that I spent the afternoon in the company of two of my oldest friends, Michael and Anna, and their sons, Wes and Miles. I held three-month-old Miles for a little bit, and hugged Michael and Anna and Wes, and we didn't do much of anything--just sat about, close to one another, making lazy conversation, and playing with our phones. Eventually, we ate pizza, and I bade them good-bye. I ran to Target for a quick shop, and returned home for the evening.

Later that night, I jotted down in my diary, Coronavirus fears still running high. Target was sold out of a lot of stuff.

I didn't know it that day, but Michael and Anna were the last people I saw, socially, before the world ended. And so I thought it rather fitting that they would be the first people I would see, socially, when I emerged back into this new world. Which is what I did today. Today was 40th birthday, and I had originally intended to spend this day with an intimate group of family and friends in Cincinnati, and goddammit, I didn't want this day to be a total wash. So when Michael and Anna reached out to see if they'd be able to do a drive-by today, I thought, Fuck it. To my surprise and relief, the spike that so many models had predicted has not yet happened. And so, we concocted a plan for a picnic. Just me and Michael and Anna and Miles, outside, on picnic blankets in the shade at Bryan Park, giving each other plenty of space. And it was absolutely a joy to be with them--these dear friends who have been family to me for a very long time. We didn't get near each other, we didn't hug, I wasn't able to hold Miles--almost three months older, and bigger, and changed, so changed! This is the "new normal"--the necessary normal, the normal that I am trying to make work for me.

Which makes me think--it's now time to bring this volume of The Plague Diaries to its close, on the day when I "broke quarantine" and began to resume life in its altered form. Next week, I start back to work in the library building. And while we'll be following all sorts of protocols of social distancing and PPE, the fact remains that my risk vector will go up significantly once this part of my life starts back up. It doesn't mean that I'll be going to get-togethers, or demanding pedicures, or hopping on planes to see my family and friends. But it does mean that I will have to take cautious, calculated risks in order to start rejoining the world in its altered form. Or, as I laughingly told Middle Sister earlier today, "time to resume my usual, voluntary social isolation."

If there's another lockdown/quarantine, I'll probably start "Volume 2" of the Plague Diaries, but I will be very surprised if this will happen. Because, of course, #'murica. But regardless, I will definitely try to post more regularly here, whether or not it's about Life During COVID-19. Posting on here regularly--it's been one of the only 2020 goals I've really been able to follow through on. And really, it's been something I've been meaning to be better at for years, and now, finally, it's happened.

All it took was a pandemic.

Plague Diaries, Issue 63: May 21, 2020

Question: Why is divorce so expensive?
Answer: Because it's worth it!

The other day, in the middle of the day of meetings that never ended, a few of us got rather punchy and started doing a show-and-tell of "What's on my desk." I'd like to think I won the contest when I got my boss to dissolve into giggles when I showed them all the picture that my sister gave me right after I filed for divorce from my husband:

And then, because the universe has a sense of humor (and when you're middle class white chick, of course you think the universe is paying attention to you) my ex-husband called me later that evening.

Now, the artist formerly known as Mr. Melissa and I have a fairly amiable, amicable relationship. I've never been particularly talented at holding grudges against my exes, and once my ex-husband and I managed to disentagle from each other, we were able to re-establish a cordial, sometimes even warm, camraderie, perhaps like two seasoned soldiers who have weathered untold battles and trials. Except we were the battles and trials for each other.

Anyway, turns out that he needed a copy of our divorce paperwork. I'm always happy to take a stroll down memory lane and recall one of the best decisions I ever made, so I dug out the packet (still haven't gotten the decree framed, but perhaps it's now time?) and as I was flipping through, I noticed that the paperwork also recorded our wedding date: May 21, 2020.

Well, well, well. Happy not-anniversary. It would have been our 10 year anniversary today! Thank god it's not.

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In plague-related news, I've been working flat-out all week, and I would say that I'm very grateful for the three-day weekend coming up...except I'm pretty sure that I'll need to put in a full day's work on Sunday. And I think that's pretty okay, honestly. It's been a long time since I was able to feel so stressed and frazzled and challenged and accomplished. We will be working from home for a goodly amount of time for a little while longer, and my co-managers and I have been enthusiastically brainstorming projects to keep ourselves and our folks in work during these "at home" weeks. Library-wide, we've been forced to think outside the box, be flexible and creative and just lean into new and different ways of doing things--virtual programming and outreach, information sharing, reference services, etc. And honestly, while I don't know if we will be able to sustain all of it once we totally return, 100%, to in-building work, I hope that we can continue some of this. The plague has been "the great disruptor" and has literally caused death and financial ruin to thousands of people, but god, it would be nice if we could get something good out of it.

Current Indiana COVID-19 Counts:
Total Number of Cases: 30,409 (up from the 28,705 mentioned on 5/19)
1,791 people have died.

Nationwide, 93,061 people have died.

Plague Diaries, Issue 62: May 19, 2020

Consider this my change of address: I am moving into my work Gmail inbox. I live there now. And Zoom is my vacation home, and Google Hangouts is the equivalent of the neighborhood bar, except without any booze or hot young men to make time with. Seriously, I spent all day, except for mealtimes, hunched over my computer, from 9 AM until 8 PM. Who knew that the apocalypse would require so much screen time? And I've got several more days ahead of this. I mean, believe me, I prefer this dawn-to-dusk librarianing for more than 18 hours of moping, brooding, brief naps, and crying, but damn. It's a lot right now.

Nonetheless, I was able to complete the Fourth Day of Birthday--which was giving myself the gift of scheduling my diagnostic mammogram. I had my first one last year, when my doctor thought that there Might Be Something Wrong, and now that I'm officially middle-aged, I need to have one every year. And I definitely see any effort to avoid premature death to be a worthy birthday gift to myself! So later this summer, I get the joy of having a boobsmash.

The only other thing of note--and it barely counts as something of note--was that I managed to snatch some time between meetings to toss together a very basic sheetpan meal--sausage and potatoes and onions.

I know it's not pretty. But I'm actually rather proud of this--I've never been a particularly remarkable cook, and definitely not inventive or imaginative. I don't deviate from a recipe, usually, and the concept of "whipping something up" just seems beyond my ken. But today, I noticed that I had a package of sausages that I had to use or lose, and pondered what other supplies I had at hand, and fuck me if I didn't just throw this together. 

Verdict: Sausages were greasy and yummy (neither should surprise anyone), taters needed to be cooked a little longer, and next time, something green wouldn't go amiss. But it was filling and not wasteful, so, win! Now if only we can make it, like, 15 calories...

Tomorrow's another day cram-jammed with meetings, plus an evening at The Prof's house, and my brain is possibly oozing out of my earholes right now, so this is where I leave you. 

Current Indiana COVID-19 Counts:
Total Number of Cases: 28,705 (up from yesterday's 28,255)
1,678 people have died.

Nationwide, 90,340 people have died. We're still under the 100K mark...hurray?